Tapping in Morse Code
by Grac3
Summary: Vampire!Sherlock (and Mycroft). Sherlock starves himself when he's working a case. Worried of the possible consequences of his brother's actions, Mycroft suggests that he finds a more reliable food source than the usual sterile blood bags - in the form of a certain ex-army medic. See warnings inside.
1. The Hidden Community

**A.N.:** This is my first vampire AU story, and my version of vampires is very different to anything I've read but I've tried to explain everything that you need to know within the story at some point. Also, I place this between Baskerville and Reichenbach (but that's not really vital to the storyline).

**Warnings:** References to drug use and mental health issues, swearing, spoilers for the first series (and possibly the second series).

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.**

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Chapter 1 – The Hidden Community

Sherlock slurped the last drops of blood from the bottom of the blood bag, throwing it across the room so that it landed atop the pile of similarly empty plastic medical pouches. Blood from such a source was plain, cold. Boring. But it was clean, and that – as well as concern for morality – was the reason he went to Mycroft's office to raid his brother's supply rather than drag someone off the street to feed on. Random blood had the tendency to be laced with less-than-desirable substances – including his old vice, cocaine – and such contaminated blood was not advisable for addicts to be feasting on.

He wiped the excess blood off of his chin, smearing the crimson across the back of his hand. When he looked up from his position on the floor, his brother was looking down at him with a disapproving look on his face.

They had been born vampires, children of a vampire mother and a human father, existing in harmony with humans their entire lives, keeping their true natures secret while the mainstream race made fiction of their kind – most of it annoyingly inaccurate.

"What?" he spat, getting to his feet.

Mycroft didn't speak for a few moments. "When did you last feed, Sherlock?"

The detective sneered. "You know I don't feed on cases. Digestion slows my thinking."

Mycroft pursed his lips, disenchanted. "You have been working on that diamante case for two weeks, brother. Do you mean to tell me that not a single drop of blood has passed your lips in a _fortnight_?"

Sherlock glared at his brother, feeling his anger rising. "Thank you for the blood, Mycroft." He nodded curtly and turned to leave. But Mycroft – being taller – was faster than him, and blocked his exit.

Mycroft kept a large supply of blood bags in his office – his real one, not the one that John had seen. His real office was almost twice the size, about five miles away from the fake one. While the fake was wooden and dark, the real one was metallic and shiny, with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out across an impressive view of London. The desk was almost identical to the one in the fake office, except for the large 'drawer' that was actually a fridge in which the vampire kept his blood; there was also a door hidden behind the bookcase to the right of the desk that led to a bedroom, for the British government spent far too much time in the office that he didn't always make it home.

All of the offices on that floor had glass doors, and anyone inside the office could see whatever was going on in the corridor beyond. However, the window was one-way, and so no one outside would have seen Sherlock devouring delicious crimson liquid from sterile medical pouches, and nor would they see the confrontation between the two vampires by the glass door.

"Move," the detective growled.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him, as though challenging him. "You need to feed more regularly." Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted. "Even when on a case."

"Surely it matters more that I catch a killer than feed?"

"Not when you are putting yourself in such a risk!" Mycroft snapped. "You could die. Or-" he added, raising his voice at Sherlock's attempt to retaliate, "you could kill someone. I would rather Miss Donovan's predictions not become reality."

Sherlock remained silent, his anger apparent in his expression. He had never come close to taking someone's life, even on the infrequent occasions when he had fed off of humans. Mostly he drank from blood bags, however unsatisfying it was when he had already tasted fresh blood.

He licked his lips. "What do you suggest?" he asked, only playing along with Mycroft because if he did not, his brother would not let him leave.

Mycroft smirked. "A volens."

Sherlock's eyes widened at the thought. "What?" he breathed, repulsed at the idea. "Are you insane?"

"I have one," Mycroft stated simply.

"Hmm," Sherlock agreed. "And how is that working out for you?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed so slightly, it took a vampire's superior eyesight to notice it. "Bearable," he said in a clipped tone.

While Sherlock loved to wind Mycroft up, even he was not so cruel as to push this particular matter; he gave him a fake smile and spoke quickly. "I don't think so." He attempted to push passed his brother, but Mycroft put a hand on his chest and shoved him back. Sherlock stumbled backwards, coming to a stop in the middle of the room and nearly slipping on the pile of empty blood bags that he had left. He glared at Mycroft as the elder walked forwards a few steps.

"Think about it," Mycroft urged. "A food source you could depend on. One that could be accessed at ease, even when you run out of blood bags. A _reliable_ food source."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's barbaric," he whispered.

Mycroft scoffed. "Ridiculous!"

"No one has a volens anymore!" Sherlock exclaimed, spreading his arms slightly.

"No," Mycroft agreed, "but do you know why?" Sherlock did not respond, hoping to escape this conversation as soon as possible. Mycroft stepped forward, passing his brother and offering Sherlock the seat in front of his desk. Begrudgingly, the younger Holmes accepted as Mycroft walked around his desk and sat down.

"There was once a time," Mycroft began, placing his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers, "when vampires and humans coexisted peacefully, living side-by-side. We were not seen as much of a threat. We are, after all, so similar to humans in almost every way that the idea that we are all bloodthirsty murdering monsters is a modern stereotype, one that was unheard of at this time. To have a volens was common, because we could be trusted.

"But, sadly, over time, humans became increasingly suspicious of us, and as a result, we practically had to fake our own extinction. As the generations passed, we were all but forgotten and condemned to fiction as we entered this more 'rational' age. The unpopularity of having a volens is based on this mistrust of vampires held by humans. We cannot risk letting humans know of our true nature, and so finding a volens is harder than before – but not impossible. It is by no means, as you say, 'barbaric'."

Sherlock listened intently, his breathing becoming shallower with every word. "Even when you consider the side effects?" he asked, in barely more than a murmur.

Mycroft seemed to suppress a flinch at this. He considered for a moment before speaking. "Yes. Even taking the _possible_ side effects into account."

Sherlock gulped. Mycroft had a terrifying knack of persuading people that that which they found irrational before was now the most sensible thing in the world – a talent that no doubt served him well in his political life – and he was beginning to find it difficult to come up with another possible objection to the notion.

"A volens requires a previous relationship," he began, speaking fast and desperately. "A friendship, at least. I am a sociopath-"

Mycroft's expression changed slightly, and Sherlock quietened. "I believe you know who I think you should ask," he said softly.

Sherlock's brow furrowed. Was it obvious? He wracked his brain, thinking over all those he had somehow grown close to; those who, if no other word was available, he would consider as 'friends'. When he realised just which of these individuals his brother was eluding to, his eyes widened in shock and disgust.

"No," he stated firmly. "Not John."

Mycroft made no attempt to stop him as he got to his feet and strode purposefully towards the door to the office. He was almost at the door when his brother called him again. Sherlock froze, but did not turn back.

"Ask him. I'm sure he feels the same concern as I."

Sherlock sneered, and carried on through the door.

~{G}~

Against his better judgement, Sherlock did think about it. Two weeks after the diamante case had finished, he had a short case that took his mind off of his brother's suggestion; and then a hiatus. As the boredom crept in, he tried not to think about the notion of asking John to be his volens, but, despite himself, he found himself wondering about it once more as he threw the fifth empty blood bag onto the coffee table after the conclusion of the short case. John had asked him not to do that, but the doctor wasn't there, and the detective was more than capable of cleaning up after himself so that his flatmate would never be the wiser.

As much as he loathed admitting it, after some time to think, his brother's suggestion seemed acceptable; even logical. He couldn't go on like this, depriving himself of blood just because he was working on a case. He usually drank his entire store when Lestrade called him, so that he was alert and fully-functional at the crime scene. After that, for the duration of the case, he deprived himself, citing that he didn't have time to get blood bags on a case, or that he had no need for physical sustenance when his mind was fuelled by the puzzle.

He was now beginning to realise that it was a stupid thing to do.

Yet… John? Would that be too much to ask of the good doctor, who already had to put up with his experiments and his boredom and his petulance and his late-night violin performances? Would asking him to be his volens be too great a liberty to take?

However, much to the detective's annoyance, it was the only thing that made sense. For, only three humans knew of Sherlock's true nature, and John was the only one whom he had chosen to reveal it to.

Anthea had been intelligent.

Mycroft kept no secrets from his assistant, and although her previous knowledge of vampires was limited – as were most humans' – she, as ever thirsty for enlightenment, had researched and discovered that if her boss was a vampire, then, by extension, his brother must be one too.

Lestrade had been an accident.

It had happened when Sherlock was detoxing, in secret to avoid his brother's smugness at being right about his addiction. The detective inspector had walked into his flat while he was lying on the sofa, trembling and sweating with withdrawal.

Sherlock had barely registered what was happening; all he knew was that a human was fussing over him, taking his temperature and trying to make him feel more 'comfortable' – asking him if there was anything he wanted, anything he needed.

When the detective was unresponsive, out of spite more than an inability to reply, Lestrade had taken his phone out and begun to call someone. Sherlock knew that it was Mycroft.

He didn't want his brother to know that he had finally taken his advice, so he began to make demands to distract the detective inspector from the phone call.

"Could you close the curtains?" he asked. "The light is not helping my migraine."

The detective inspector had nodded obligingly, but the order had not achieved Sherlock's true aim: the phone had already begun dialling, and Lestrade simply put it on speaker and laid the device on the floor.

"Holmes," the voice came through the phone. Sherlock sneered as his suspicions were confirmed.

"It's Lestrade," the detective inspector called over his shoulder from the curtains. "I found Sherlock. He's at his flat. Detoxing."

Darkness was filling the room as Lestrade shut the curtains. Sherlock noticed that his withdrawal symptoms seemed to be getting worse; a niggling had begun at the base of his throat.

"Gregory," Mycroft had said slowly, almost warningly. The niggling became recognisable: Sherlock was hungry.

"Yeah?" Lestrade had asked, still fiddling with the curtains.

Sherlock's throat was beginning to hurt. He needed blood. He could imagine the thick liquid slipping down his throat, soothing it like honey. His disorientation from the detox was fading. He began to sit up.

"Gregory, do not turn your back on him!" came the voice through the phone, becoming increasingly urgent. "Get out of there-"

Sherlock pressed the button to hang up the phone as he pushed himself off of the sofa and padded silently up to the detective inspector.

"Sorry?" Lestrade asked, turning. Sherlock was inches from him. The older man looked up at him strangely. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

It would be wrong, Sherlock tried to remind himself. Vampires were not supposed to reveal themselves, not to people they knew, not to people who – for some reason – seemed to trust them. It was dangerous – for both sides.

But Lestrade was not an addict. His blood would be clean. It would help speed up the detoxing process; he would feel so much better, so much more quickly…

It would be so _fresh_, so much warmer than the sterile, medically stored blood in those awful pouches that always seemed to leave a funny aftertaste in his mouth…

All thoughts of right and wrong left his head as his fangs extended, nipping at his bottom lip impatiently like someone tapping their knuckles on a door.

He couldn't fight it anymore.

He struck.

Lestrade hissed in pain; Sherlock drank slowly, savouring each gulp of clean, fresh blood. Lestrade tried to push him away, but his protests were futile; Sherlock was stronger. The vampire simply dug his fangs deeper into the older man's neck.

Eventually, the detective inspector's attempts to push him off became weaker, and as he lost consciousness he grew heavier in the vampire's arms, until Sherlock had to lower him to the floor. He placed a hand underneath the older man's head so he didn't have to stop drinking. One the human was laying on the floor, he took two last mouthfuls before retracting his fangs, licking the wounds so that they healed.

It was only when the haze from satisfying his hunger subsided that he realised that Lestrade's phone was ringing.

He crossed the room quickly and snatched up the device. It was a private number. He answered it.

"Hello?" he asked, his voice thick.

"Gr-Sherlock?" It was Mycroft, as he had expected. "What have you done?"

Sherlock looked up at Lestrade's unmoving body. "I drank."

Mycroft sighed. "Is he dead?"

Sherlock did not answer straight away. The migraine was returning. "No."

"How much did you take?"

His head was pounding. A sweat broke out on his forehead. "Three," he gasped as he sank to the floor.

"I'm on my way."

After many talks with both of the brothers, Lestrade had finally accepted the apology that Sherlock offered him – or rather, that Mycroft had offered on Sherlock's behalf. In fact, he had even reached the point where he considered their true natures… _cool_, was the word he had used.

But John…

John was another matter. He had _chosen_ to tell him. One evening, he had showed him the secret compartment that he had hidden in the fridge for his blood bags and told him everything, fully expecting him to leave; fully expecting that this eccentricity would be the final straw, and that the doctor would go before anything could happen to him.

Not that anything _would_ happen to him. Sherlock would never allow that. Having a vampire for a flatmate did not automatically put one in danger. Vampires were, in most cases, very good at not allowing their impulses to take over in such a way that anyone would be harmed; as long as they fed regularly…

But he didn't. That was the point. That was what Mycroft was afraid of: that his refusal to let a single drop of blood pass his lips when he was so immersed in whatever case he was working on would lead to a lapse of judgement, that his hunger would get the better of him – that he would kill someone…

It was because of this that Sherlock had reconsidered his brother's suggestion. It was because of this that he realised that it would be the sensible thing to at least ask – if asking was only as far as it ever got. It was because of this that he was standing before a locked gate in an apparently deserted back street in Camden, checking to see if anyone was in the vicinity.

The gate was plain, inconspicuous, but that was the whole point. Most would pass by without batting an eyelid and those that did would simply wonder briefly why the gate needed to be locked at all – for it did not seem to be guarding anything – before moving on.

The gate had a black box that covered the crease by which it opened, and in the black box was a keyhole. No key in existence actually fit the lock; it was just there for show. Along the side of the black box, too small to be visible to the naked eye – well, the naked _human_ eye – was a thin line. An opening.

Sherlock flicked the black box open and revealed the retina scanner inside. It had to be one of the most powerful retina scanners in the world, for it did not check for the identity of the person it scanned, but rather to see whether or not they were a vampire.

Sherlock let his fangs elongate in his mouth, prizing his lips open slightly so that he did not prick his bottom one. He leaned forward and allowed the scanner to check for the subtle change that this made to his eyes – so subtle that only a vampire could see it.

Satisfied that he was, indeed, not human, the lock clicked and the gate was open. He retracted his fangs and shut the black box, pulling the gate towards him and slipping through as quickly as possible.

The street he entered was dull, bleak. It looked desolate; the buildings had signs outside that revealed their neglect – years old 'for lease' signs, and even a danger one. The paint and plaster was peeling, and through one smashed window, a bird's nest was visible.

He passed the derelict buildings without a second thought, turning the corner to enter a secret of the London vampire community.

It was a small retail street, with shops and facilities tailored to the needs of vampires. The first was a pharmacy, providing medicine for genetic ailments some vampires suffered from, and the all-important bandages which vampires used to cover the bite marks they left on those from which they fed. A little further along the street was a café, whose weird and wonderful coffee concoctions would put Starbucks to shame. There was even a small chapel for those of religious inclination to frequent.

None of those interested Sherlock, however. Not today. Today, he headed straight for the last shop on the street: Maggie's, the bookshop.

Maggie's was a fairly new establishment, though the green paint on the outside was already chipped in places. Across the top of the front of the shop was the name in large, white lettering; this motif was kept in much better condition than the rest of the display. The books in the window were frayed, and there were frequently ones missing due to the shop assistants' tendencies to 'borrow' them on their lunch hours to read.

A bell above the door trilled as he stepped inside. The bookshop was, as always, seemingly deserted. Even Maggie herself – usually gossiping behind the counter on her phone – was nowhere to be seen.

Ignoring this fact, Sherlock headed straight for the non-fiction books, passing so many of the crime novels that he had read as a child. The bookshop featured books specifically for vampires; fiction that told the true stories of how romance would actually work in the vampire community, because they were written by vampires – not the guesses that humans made in their fantasy novels; they never sparkled in the books in Maggie's – and non-fiction that explained various historical vampire references that were hidden from human eyes, covered up with conspiracy theories that only those whom no one would ever believe would uncover. There was even a self-help section, as emotions affected vampires differently from humans and subjects such as depression needed to be handled with slightly different levels of discretion. The detective almost found himself distracted by the poetry section, but moved on swiftly. If he dawdled too long, he might change his mind.

The book he was looking for was found in the non-fiction section, and was one of the few books that were actually intended for humans. It was a thin book, no more than fifty pages, and had a bright white cover with a yellow title: _Volens – Explaining the Concept to Your Human_.

Sherlock sneered at the patronising title; vampires always liked to assume that they were better than humans: smarter, faster, stronger. In reality they held no real extra powers than their human counterparts; they could not change into bats, they could not 'flit', they could not hold the consciousness of a human captive and force them into slavery with a single glance so that they helplessly followed every instruction without question. The only real difference between vampires and humans was that they needed blood for sustenance rather than food and drink, and were perhaps paler in complexion. Yet some vampires saw themselves as superior simply because they had been born into this life, forgetting the fact that they could just have easily been born human.

Sneering, Sherlock picked the book off of the shelf – once again determined to make this purchase quick lest he revise his opinion on the matter.

When he reached the counter with the book in hand, Maggie had returned and was reaching for her phone – the latest Nokia Lumia – presumably to call someone who may have had some worthy gossip for her. Her hand was hovering over the large screen when she seemed to realise that she had a customer, and she instantly abandoned her mission to flash the detective a wide, infuriating smile.

Maggie – no one knew her surname – was a tall woman, practically six foot. Her hair was golden blonde and fell in rivulets down to her elbows. Her eyes were strikingly blue, sticking out from her pale skin like strobe lights. She wore a flowery material headband and a flowing dress in rainbow colours, while her thin fingers were adorned with a variety of colourful rings. A ring was also present in her nose, and she wore large earrings with blue jewels dangling from them on little metal chains, just visible from beneath her sunshine locks.

"Hello," she smiled at him. It was a huge smile, one that practically invaded the entire bottom half of her face as it stretched from ear to ear. Sherlock was put in mind of the Cheshire Cat.

Sherlock did not reply as he placed the book on the counter. Maggie, who was used to the detective's anti-social, sociopathic behaviour, was not perturbed in the slightest. Her smile did falter, however, when she saw the title of the book he was purchasing.

"Volens?" She looked up at him with a quizzical look as she turned the book over to search for the barcode. "Surely this isn't for you, you don't have anyone to ask to be a volens? Are you picking it up for your brother? Oh, I hope not. Vampires can't feed off of each other, and I would _love_ to be his volens-"

"My brother has one," Sherlock explained plainly, and a look of disappointment crossed Maggie's face. He was exhausted by the bookshop owner's infuriating infatuation with his older brother.

"Oh," Maggie said, sliding the scanner over the barcode. She seemed to have deflated at the unsatisfactory news, her cheeriness leaving her in an instant. The scanner bleeped and the price appeared on the screen facing Sherlock. "£4.99, please."

Sherlock pulled out a crisp five pound note and picked the book up from the counter, neatly tucking it away in the inside pocket of his coat. "Thank you." He nodded and turned to the door.

"Are you sure he has one?" Maggie asked desperately behind him.

"Good afternoon, Maggie," he called back, not stopping until he was out of the shop and beyond the gate at the end of the street.

When he returned to 221b, John was reading in his chair.

"Hello," the doctor called, not looking up from his book.

Sherlock slapped the thin volume retrieved from his pocket down on the coffee table.

"What-?" John began, pushing himself up slightly in the chair.

"Think about it," Sherlock asked of him, not looking up as he strode straight to his room.

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**A.N.: **This is going to be a three-shot, and exactly what a volens is will be explained in the next chapter. By the way, it's all in John's POV from now on.


	2. The Bond

**A.N.:** Thank you to everyone who reviewed and favourited/followed this story! It got a lot more attention than I was expecting...

**Warnings:** References to drug use and mental health issues, swearing, spoilers for the first series (and possibly the second series). Also, there is a lot of emphasis based on the theory of evolution in this chapter. I understand that people have differing views on evolution, but it is quite crucial to this story which it is why it has been included.

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.**

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Chapter 2 – The Bond

It took John a week to read the book. By the time he had finished, he wanted to put a bullet in it.

He had known of Sherlock's true nature for about a year; the detective had told him of it just after the incident with Moriarty at the pool.

"You were willing to sacrifice yourself for me," he had said indifferently, "I think it only fair that I repay the favour in some way."

At the time, John hadn't known what to expect when the detective had shown him that there was a hidden compartment in the fridge, underneath a bag of ears preserved in something that smelled horribly of formaldehyde. He wasn't too surprised that it was filled with chilled blood bags – after the head, he didn't think he'd ever be surprised again. But when Sherlock had told him what they were for…

At first, he had thought that it was an experiment: trying to gauge the reaction of someone to this kind of news; although what the data collected could be used for, the doctor could only guess at.

The feeling that the reason for his telling him this was only for such 'innocent' purposes as an experiment began to dwindle when the detective offered to order a copious amount of Chinese – and pay for it. John had begun to feel slightly uneasy at this point.

What hadn't helped matters was that, even though they didn't have a case and Sherlock did eat in hiatus periods, the detective helped himself to a large plate of food and – over the course of their conversation – ate all of it. John had never seen so much food pass the detective's lips in one sitting.

"So… you're a vampire?" John had asked, trying to keep his voice light if only to reassure himself that of course it couldn't be true. This was a game, thought up by the detective to stave off his boredom.

"Yes," Sherlock had nodded simply, before stuffing an obscene amount of noodles into his mouth.

"Like, with fangs and everything?" John had chuckled, though he had a sneaking feeling that this was no laughing matter.

Sherlock swallowed his food and, in the same matter-of-fact tone, replied, "Yes. Would you like to see them?"

"Uh…" John had mumbled, his prawn dropping back onto his plate from between his chopsticks. "Sure. Why not?" He tried to sound dismissive, but his heart rate had increased significantly – _Can he hear that?_ a part of him asked – and he could think of no way that Sherlock could fake fangs.

Sherlock prized his lips open slightly to reveal his teeth. They were all normal length; alright, his canines did appear a little sharper than most people's, but John was a doctor, not a dentist, how was he supposed to know if that was normal or not-

But then those canines began to elongate until they were about an inch and a half long.

John felt his eyes widen. "What… the…"

Sherlock retracted his fangs and went back to eating his Chinese, as though nothing had happened.

A million and one questions began whizzing around John's head, each one trying to be the first one to stumble out of his mouth in a rather undignified fashion. Yet in the end, he went with:

"Why are you telling me this?"

Sherlock looked up from his plate, slightly confused. "I told you," he explained. "What you did by the pool. That was… good. While we have to be wary of revealing ourselves to humans, I thought that it was time that you knew."

John felt as though his brain had been disconnected for a few moments. "So…" he began, and he found himself looking at the wall rather than at his flatmate, "you're a vampire?"

"Yes." Sherlock looked up at him, and John noticed that he seemed… uncomfortable. "How do you feel about that?"

John chuckled humourlessly. "Uh, I don't know, really. You know, all the experiments, the deductions, and now _this_? I don't know."

Sherlock lowered his chopsticks slowly down to his plate. He cleared his throat and asked, "Are you going to leave?"

John blinked at him. In all honesty, the thought had never crossed his mind. After all, what was waiting for him beyond Baker Street? Nightmares, a limp, and an empty blog… Surely if Sherlock had blood bags in the fridge, that meant that he wasn't dragging people off of the street, and something in his soldier instincts told John that the detective would never kill anyone – at least, not on purpose.

Sherlock Holmes: consulting detective, slight oddball, vampire. It fit so well, John was surprised he hadn't guessed it himself.

"No," he told him. The discomforted expression on Sherlock's face melted away. They ate in silence for a few moments, before the detective spoke again.

"Ask me anything."

John choked slightly on his prawn toast. "I'm sorry?" he asked, his voice thick with food.

"About my being a vampire," Sherlock elaborated. "Ask me anything."

John had stared in disbelief for a few moments, before the multitude of questions that had been lurking in the far corners of his mind began to spill out.

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-six."

"No, how old are you _really_?"

"Thirty-six. Despite what human fiction writers would have you believe, vampires are mortal. We age like humans and then we die."

"A mortal vampire? How boring."

Sherlock had smirked at this. "Isn't it?"

"When did you become a vampire?"

"I was born one. Vampires cannot be made. My mother was a vampire, my father was a human. There was a fifty per cent chance I would be human. I wasn't."

"Is Mycroft a vampire?"

"Yes."

"Does anyone else know? Human, I mean?"

"Yes. Anthea found out shortly after she started working for Mycroft. Lestrade, when I was detoxing."

"Do you drink from humans?"

"I have done. Mostly I drink from blood bags. It is not as satisfying, but it is safer."

"For you or the person you're feeding from?"

"Both. I have never come close to killing anyone, but I would rather not accidentally drink blood laced with cocaine. It would put me 'back to square one'."

"Is this the reason you hardly sleep?"

"No. I don't sleep because my mind is too fast."

"Are all vampires as brilliant as you?"

Another smirk. "No. That remains… a family trait."

"You eat human food as well, though. How is that possible?"

"Vampire DNA is similar enough to that of humans that we can digest the same food. It is simply not as nutritious as blood. We could eat only human food but would die of malnutrition."

The conversation lasted long into the night – much long after the plates of Chinese food had been cleared. By the time John went to bed that night, he had accepted the latest eccentricity of his flatmate's.

Sherlock's being a vampire had never really got in the way of anything before now. He had his blood bags, and most of the time it went unspoken of.

Now, however, the book had turned up.

Oh, how John wanted to shoot it.

First, there had been the title: 'Explaining the Concept to Your Human'.

'_Your_ Human'.

He had dismissed this, for it was only the title; it was clear, concise, and said everything that needed to be said about the contents of the book. He read in spite of the fact that he refused to be regarded as the 'property' of a vampire simply because he had been born a human.

Yet as he read, it only got worse. The book was, perhaps, one of the most patronising volumes he had ever read. It repeated the most basic of concepts several times, as though the writer believed humans incapable of retaining such information from one page to another, and was condescending even in its language.

The book had started simply enough; it explained the basics of vampires that John already knew. The concept that the book actually referred to in its title – the concept of a 'volens' – was not mentioned until page 3; and the definition was enough to make John's blood boil.

_A volens (literally, 'willing') is the human companion of a vampire who willingly lets that vampire feed off of them._

He had almost put the book down. Sherlock wanted him to do _what_? Why, after all this time, had he suddenly decided to ask this of him? Had the blood bags become too boring? And _why_ had he used this infuriating book to do it?

The book continued along the lines of a history lesson on the development of this 'affinity', as the book described the vampire/volens relationship.

_It is the accepted scientific theory that vampires evolved at the same time as humans, separated by a genetic mutation. This has led to a developed relationship between the two species as they are, in terms of social interaction, almost completely the same. Inter-species friendships and even romantic relationships are common, and this has aided the emergence of the more intimate affinity of the volens concept. (page 8)_

After the history lesson, it moved on to more descriptive purposes of the 'affinity':

_In terms of creating the vampire/volens affinity, the first feeding is the most important. In this feeding, a bond is created between the vampire and the human which inextricably links the two together. As the more sensitive of the two, the vampire is more aware of the bond than the human. In some reported cases, the human has been completely unaware of it. As a result, this bond, from the point of view of the vampire, cannot be broken, even if the affinity ends. (page 16)_

This only seemed to fuel to doctor's anger. A bond? That couldn't be broken? Sherlock was barely comfortable admitting that they were friends; why would he want to create an extra bond between them? Yet this passage was not all the book had to say about the bond, and what it had to say next chilled John to his very core.

_The bond – as with all aspects of the affinity – is more dangerous for the vampire than for the human. Vampires have heightened senses in every way, including the feelings of emotion. Because of this, many vampires choose to distance themselves from emotion as much as possible. However, in the affinity it is unavoidable, and the bond can even force the vampire to fall in love with their volens. Whether this is requited or not is based purely on the human's own feelings, due to the bond affecting the vampire more than the human. This side-effect is, however, by no means definite. The number of recorded cases of a vampire falling in love with their volens purely because of the bond is approximately 5% of all recorded cases of vampires with volens. (page 28)_

The bond, as a concept, was truly terrifying. What would happen to their relationship if Sherlock was to fall prey to the side-effects? The book had said that it only happened five per cent of the time, but that was only in recorded cases. How many unrecorded cases were there?

Nevertheless, John read on…

_The evolution of vampires is very similar to that of humans. Vampire DNA only differs from human DNA by 0.5%, which has led to a relationship between the two which is more respectful, considerate and morally-grounded than simply that of predator and prey. (Indeed, some anthropologists argue that vampires and humans are, in fact, part of the same species, as they can produce fertile offspring with each other.) As a result, the human in the affinity is actually the most powerful in terms of influencing the parameters of the relationship. The volens can refuse blood to the vampire even after the bond has been established – for they are only a volens if blood is given willingly, even after the initial feeding. Furthermore, a vampire would never wish to harm their volens. It has become etiquette over the past few hundred years for vampires and volens to hold hands during feedings, for the express purpose of the human using this contact to alert the vampire of when they wish the feeding to stop. (page 31)_

Being in control certainly appealed, but holding hands? How did Sherlock think that either of them would be comfortable with that? Where had this idea come from?

John finished the book just before he went to bed. He could hear Sherlock plucking at his violin downstairs. He considered going down there to shout at the detective. Then he decided that after a monstrous day at the surgery, he was far too tired to get into an argument right now, and opted to shout at him in the morning.

However, most annoyingly, by the time he woke up the next morning it seemed like a good idea.

When the diamante case had finished, John was sure that Sherlock's hunger had almost killed him. He had had a sickly pallor and looked incredibly thin. John had always assumed that Sherlock just stayed away from human food while on a case, but it would seem that he starved himself completely. From what John knew about vampires, this was even more dangerous than if he was a human starving himself, for it could cause him to attack someone. Drain them. Kill them.

When Sherlock had disappeared and returned with the glow of a vampire who had just fed – and fed well – John had no qualms admitting that he seriously thought his flatmate _had_ killed someone. Relief like no other had taken over him when the detective told him that he had merely raided Mycroft's blood bag supply.

This incident – along with the book – made John think. Did Sherlock starve himself in this way _every_ time they had a case? What if they had a case that lasted a month, or longer? Sherlock wouldn't be able to go that long without blood, not without coming close to dying or taking the life of another.

_"One day we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there."_

The words came back to John from all that time ago. Donovan thought it would be because Sherlock was a psychopath – even though he wasn't a psychopath, he was a high functioning sociopath – but it wouldn't: it would be because he was hungry.

When John padded down the stairs the next morning, Sherlock was reading Mrs Hudson's paper at the table. He had not mentioned the book since he had given it to the doctor; did he even know that John had finished it?

"Good morning," John greeted the back of his flatmate's head. He got a similar, polite reply. "Coffee?" he asked as he headed for the kitchen.

There was a ruffle of paper as Sherlock turned the page. "Black, two sugars."

Maybe it was just John's imagination, but there seemed to be an awkward air in the flat. Everything was too quiet, so quiet it almost seemed loud…

John placed the mug of coffee on the table in front of Sherlock, who nodded in thanks, not looking up from his newspaper. John sat in the other chair to the table, and the silence continued. After a few moments of the agonising lull, Sherlock spoke.

"You read the book."

John didn't bother to ask how he knew. He cleared his throat. "Yes."

Sherlock slowly lowered his newspaper to the table, and he had the same uncomfortable look he had had when he thought that his being a vampire would prompt John to leave. "And?"

John sighed. "I don't know. I just…" He took a gulp of tea while he pondered what to say next. "Why now?"

Sherlock shifted slightly. "It has been… alerted to me that my starving myself while on a case is… not a good idea."

"Ha," John breathed humourlessly. "No, not really. Who told you this?"

"Mycroft."

Ah. Of course. The whole thing reeked of Mycroft.

"And…" the doctor began, trying to decide whether he would be out of line to ask the question on his mind. "Does he have a… volens?"

Sherlock did not answer straight away. "Yes." John nodded in understanding, sitting back in his chair and staring at the floor without really seeing it. "You don't have to accept," Sherlock was saying hurriedly. "It's just…" But, for the first time that John could remember, he appeared speechless.

John turned to his flatmate, but his gaze was still fixed down at the floor. "Did you know about the bond?" he asked, forcing himself to meet Sherlock's eyes. The detective looked distinctly discomforted.

"Yes," he said slowly. "But it's a mere side-effect. It wouldn't affect you-"

"But what if it did?" John asked, his voice raising. All his objections from the previous night were coming to the fore. "How would that affect our friendship?"

"John…" Sherlock began, almost desperately.

"Just… just answer me one thing," John interrupted, holding a hand up to silence his flatmate. "This… side-effect." He licked his lips nervously. "Did it happen to Mycroft?"

Sherlock paused. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He cleared his throat. "Yes."

They lapsed into silence again, staring at each other from opposite sides of the table. John didn't know what to think. He couldn't bear the thought of being on the receiving end of such coerced feelings. Yet at the same time, he couldn't forget that image of a starved Sherlock out of his head. He couldn't let someone die because the detective had finished all his blood bags and refused to get any more until the case he was working on was completed.

The silence was broken by the doctor's sigh. "I'll think about it."

The troubled air that had filled the flat dissipated at once, and both seemed more relaxed.

"Thank you," Sherlock nodded, picking up his newspaper once more.

~{G}~

The door slammed shut behind him. John was in a bad mood. All of his appointments that day seemed to have been for children, and only three of them had the decency to be civil. Three threw tantrums – one of which had resulted in him getting kicked in the stomach – two simply would not cooperate, and a little girl who seemed to have diagnosed herself by looking up her symptoms on her mother's smart phone spent the entire appointment telling him all about how her pony was getting too big for her.

"Oh, it's no trouble, of course," she had 'reassured' him in her annoying I'm-better-than-you tone of voice. "Father will buy me another one, and Sandwich can be sold on."

Who named a pony Sandwich anyway?

In all the horror of all the children, he had almost forgotten about the book, and the proposition, and the fight with his flatmate from that morning. Yet all of it came crashing back to him as he entered the flat and found the aforementioned flatmate draped across the sofa.

Sherlock made no attempt to acknowledge John's arrival, but that was really nothing new. John offered him a polite greeting, silently hoping that the vampire would not mention the word 'volens' to him right now. A part of him felt that he need not hope at all: Sherlock would not ask him unless he mentioned it first.

John went to remove his jacket, when he heard his phone trill. Sighing, he retrieved it from his pocket and checked the text.

_Outside. – Mycroft Holmes_

John stared hatefully at the text for a few moments. Did he get no rest? All he wanted was to take off his jacket and shoes, make a cup of tea…

"The car is waiting."

John jumped at the sound of his flatmate's baritone drawl. It was emotionless as always, but somehow dulled. Deprived of even that spark that made him sound alive.

"Black. Unmarked. Bigger than usual. Three seats in the back instead of two."

For the second time that day, John did not ask Sherlock how he knew all of this. "Do you have to come, if there are three seats?"

Sherlock shook his head and gestured to his phone. "No text."

John's phone vibrated again.

_Now, if you please. – Mycroft Holmes_

John sighed and tucked his phone away. He turned to leave, bidding Sherlock farewell. He did not get a reply.

The car sat neatly parked outside the building; large, black, unmarked as always. Sherlock had been right – it was bigger than usual; there were three seats in the back instead of two. Who else was Mycroft picking up? The windows were still blacked out, and he couldn't see inside; perhaps the mystery third person was already in the car?

John opened the door – for there was no one to do it for him; another odd sign – and slipped into the leather seat, shutting the door behind him.

"I suppose there's no point asking where we're-" He turned to the left, expecting to see Anthea sitting there typing frantically on her BlackBerry, ignoring him, and – possibly – the third mystery person.

The sight that greeted him instead would have made him stumble backwards, out of the car (slamming the door shut behind him), back through the front door, up the stairs and into the flat – preferably to flop unimpressively into his favourite chair – if said sight was one that he could actually tear his eyes away from.

Anthea was indeed sitting next to him, but she had, for once, abandoned her BlackBerry – the phone sat idly on the leather between her and John. Yet she had another sitting next to her – or perhaps 'across her' was a more accurate description – and Mycroft's fangs embedded in her throat.

Nevertheless, she didn't seem too bothered. Her head was resting back on the headrest, and she was staring at the roof of the car as though it was the most interesting thing in the world.

He stared dumbstruck for a few moments, his breathing quickened as he got over the shock of such an unexpected sight. Yet as time passed, astonishment began to become boring, and he let his eyes wander around the scene before him.

Anthea's elbow was on her knee, her hand clasped around Mycroft's; as it had been described in the book. John suddenly realised that the book hadn't explained how this was supposed to end feedings. He supposed he would find out now. As he watched, Mycroft's jaw clenched; he guessed that the vampire's fangs had dug just that little bit deeper. Anthea gasped, her eyes closing, but she still didn't seem to be in pain. A few seconds later, she reached up with her free hand and curled her fingers into Mycroft's – admittedly short, but nevertheless lush – locks.

All of a sudden, the colour drained from her cheeks, and John guessed that she couldn't afford to lose too much more blood. She squeezed Mycroft's hand as hard as she possibly could, her knuckles turning white.

The vampire drew back slowly, and John caught a glimpse of his long fangs, smooth and usually pearly white; they were now a gleaming shade of crimson. He ran his tongue along the still-bleeding punctures so that they healed.

The elder Holmes sat back, and Anthea picked up her BlackBerry and began emailing/texting/whatever-she-did-on-that-bloody-t hing again.

"Good evening, Dr Watson," Mycroft greeted.

John blinked. After such a display, how did the older man slip into something so seamlessly… human? He was acting as though nothing had just happened.

"Er…" he began, unsure of how to react. Mycroft nodded at the driver and the car began to pull away. A plastic bag with bandages in it was tossed over Anthea and landed in John's lap.

"You wouldn't mind covering the marks, would you?"

"Why me?"

"I'm not a doctor."

Scowling, John ripped opened the bandage. It was a simple piece of cloth made adhesive on one side – like a giant plaster – big enough to cover the two angry red marks on Anthea's neck. She made no acknowledgement of his presence as he carefully placed the bandage on her skin, positioning it carefully so that it met its purpose but so that it was discreet.

John took the opportunity to glance at her phone, to see what was so interesting on her BlackBerry that she seemed to remain oblivious to her entire surroundings. He expected it was some form of BBM or instant messenger.

It wasn't.

It was a game that looked suspiciously like Mario: a little character was responding to her typing, running around and jumping over little platforms, collecting coins and whatnot.

Thinking that this day couldn't get any weirder, he smoothed the bandage over her neck and sat back in his seat. Unable to see Mycroft because Anthea was in the way, John caught his eye in the rear view mirror.

"May ask what the point of that was?" he sighed, though he didn't expect to receive an answer. Indeed, he was met only with the older man's twinkling eyes.

The car drove for about half an hour, in a silence that John found incredibly uncomfortable. It pulled up outside a large, impressive building that the doctor had only been to once: the building that held Mycroft's office.

"That's not his real office," Sherlock had told him. "His real one is five miles away from that."

The silence continued as he was led to the fake office – John elected to not say anything about knowing that it was fake – and he was asked to sit down at the seat before the wooden desk in the dark room.

"I suppose there was a reason for that display?" John asked impatiently. It had been a long day. He was not in the mood for any Holmes cryptic bullshit.

"Of course," Mycroft nodded, taking seat on the other side of the desk. "I understand that my brother has asked you to be his volens?"

John sighed. "Yes, and he told me it was your idea," He said plainly. He really was not in the mood. "When did you tell him to ask me?"

"After the diamante case," Mycroft explained, "he came to my office half-dead and drank all my blood. About twenty pints' worth."

The irritation John felt melted away. "Twenty?" he asked. Mycroft nodded. "He could have-"

"Killed someone. Yes, I know." Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "You are having reservations about agreeing to the proposition."

John let out a humourless chuckle. "Well, you know…" John was finding it difficult to remember any of his doubts about the arrangement under Mycroft's gaze. "It's just… weird."

Mycroft sighed. "My brother… is a sociopath. He has, in many ways, handled this in the worst way possible. Am I right in understanding that he bought you a _book_ to explain the concept?"

"Uh, yeah," John nodded, a little glad that Mycroft thought the book was weird as well. "Yeah, he did."

Mycroft smiled a little. "I'm sorry. I should have known that he would be so tactless."

John chuckled slightly, before he realised that the subject had been changed. "You still haven't answered my question."

"Oh?" Mycroft blinked.

"What was the point of that display?" John pointed his thumb over his shoulder at the door.

Mycroft smirked and sat back in his chair. "The book Sherlock gave you is idiotic. While explaining the basics of the concept, it does not relate what it is actually like to have a volens. Or, as would be useful to you, what it is like to _be_ one. It does not explain, for example, that it does not hurt; which is one of things I am assuming you are concerned about?"

"Well, I-" John tried to protest, but Mycroft carried on regardless.

"It also puts too much importance on the bond," he explained.

John leaned forward. "Really? I think the bond is quite important." He looked over his shoulder at the door and back again. "I'm guessing this room is sound-proofed?" Mycroft nodded. John lowered his voice anyway. "Does she know?"

Mycroft did not answer straight away; he looked extremely discomforted. "Know what?"

"About the bond," John pressed. "About the fact that you're-"

"No," Mycroft held up his hand to silence the doctor, closing his eyes. He looked as though he was in pain. "She doesn't know." He lowered his hand to his desk, but when he opened his eyes, he wouldn't look at John. "And I would ask that it remain that way."

"I can't let that happen to Sherlock," John hissed.

"It won't," Mycroft said simply.

"You don't know that!" John shouted, almost standing up a little.

A moment passed in quietness.

Mycroft finally looked at John again.

"You saw him after the diamante case." It wasn't a question. "How did he look to you? In your… professional opinion?"

"My professional opinion?" John chuckled. "I studied _humans_ at Bart's, not vampires! I don't know anything about-"

"Nevertheless," Mycroft interrupted. "How did he look to you?"

John sighed and sat back in his chair, staring at the window as he thought back. "Hungry," he began, his voice still holding a slight hint of spite. "Pale. His cheekbones were quite prominent, but they're always like that. He had bags under his eyes. I suppose his clothes were a little baggy. And he leaned against a wall when he thought no one was looking…" He trailed off.

"And then he came to my office and drank twenty pints of blood," Mycroft finished softly.

"Fuck," John breathed. He looked from the window to Mycroft.

Mycroft took a breath before speaking again. "On the second occasion on which we met, you questioned the legitimacy of my concern. I assured you of it. I knew by this point that you cared for him as well. And, in that sense, we are on the same page."

The door behind John opened. "Sir?" Anthea asked. John guessed that there was a button underneath the desk that called her in, and that the vampire had pressed it without the doctor noticing. Mycroft stood, gesturing for John to do the same.

"You don't have to accept," the elder Holmes told him, the corner of his mouth twitching. "But I think you should."

John nodded a goodbye as Anthea led him out of the fake office. When the door clicked shut, she was holding a card out to him.

"Wha-?" he asked, taking it from her. It had two sentences on it:

_The Dog and Duck, Bateman Street. Tomorrow, 3pm._


	3. The Decision

**A.N.:** I have never actually been to the Dog and Duck on Bateman Street, but I did look up pictures on the Internet so hopefully the description is as accurate as possible. Also, the reason for the title is in this chapter.

**Warnings:** References to drug use and mental health issues, swearing, spoilers for the first series (and possibly the second series).

**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.**

* * *

Chapter 3 – The Decision

The Dog and Duck on Bateman Street was a rather upmarket establishment – certainly more middle class than the pubs John usually went to. The outside was dark and impressive, with the name 'Dog and Duck' written in large gold letters above the windows on the corner from the entrance. The door was shielded from the weather by overhanging black material canopies which fluttered slightly in the cool breeze.

Anthea was waiting for him when he arrived, typing on her phone; John wondered what level of her game she was on. She tucked the device away in her coat pocket when she saw him, and gave him a smile that looked odd on her usually emotionless face.

"Good afternoon," she nodded at him.

"Afternoon," he smiled politely. "W-what is this about, exactly?"

Her smile became cryptic as she turned away from him, pushing the door open and entering the pub.

Inside was just as intimidating as outside. The first word that came to John's mind to describe the place was 'posh', but he felt that 'big' would have sufficed. The pub was wooden, with a polished floor so shiny it almost hurt his eyes. There were pictures on the wall that didn't necessarily relate to anything, and the chairs were large and high, with a bar a few inches off of the ground to help those of a shorter disposition to push themselves onto the seat.

Anthea led him to a quiet table at the back. John climbed into the chair – a feat that proved rather difficult due to his little legs. It was an incredibly undignified act as Anthea – aided into her seat by her high heels – watched on unsympathetically.

When he had finally wrestled himself into his seat, Anthea began to speak.

"You know… that I am Mr Holmes' volens." Her hand instinctively went up to her neck, still with the bandage from the night before when it had been punctured by fangs. "And Mr Holmes asked you to be his."

"Yes…" John agreed slowly. While he had known this is what their conversation would be about, he was not entirely sure where it was going.

"I've been informed that you're having some indecision about the matter, which is perfectly understandable. So I arranged this… meeting to let you ask me any questions. I'm sure you have some."

John blinked at her, unsure of what he was hearing. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Well," Anthea began, matter-of-factly, "I am the only person who can tell you what the vampire/volens relationship is like from a human point of view. The vampire one, I would imagine, is very different."

John stammered. "Uh, does Mycroft know you're doing this?"

"Yes," Anthea nodded. "But it wasn't his idea."

John said nothing for a few moments. He took a deep breath, and once again found himself staring into space – this time 'space' being a painting on the wall of a boat floating on a sea that was an unnatural shade of teal.

"It doesn't matter what it is," she prompted. "Ask me anything."

John's head snapped back to her. _Ask me anything._ He was taken back to the evening that he had first found out about Sherlock's true nature; the vampire had said the exact same thing. And he had asked anything then, so he decided not to waste this opportunity.

"How long have you been his volens?"

"Four years."

"Why did he ask you?"

Anthea smiled slightly. "He didn't."

"What?" John blanched. "But you have to agree, otherwise it's not-"

"He didn't _ask_," Anthea interjected. "I offered."

John's eyes widened. "What?"

Anthea sighed, and relaxed into the story. "Four years ago, Mr Holmes was still addicted to cocaine-"

"He's still an addict, he's just clean now-"

"He was still using," Anthea conceded, her tone snappish. John resolved not to interrupt her again. "Addiction is not the same for vampires as it is for humans. They can stave off withdrawal symptoms with fresh blood – or, rather, clean blood. Mr Holmes would often break into Mr Holmes' office-"

"Sorry," John shook his head slightly, breaking his promise to himself not to interrupt. "But can you call them Mycroft and Sherlock? All this 'Mr Holmes' is getting confusing."

Anthea sighed, and nodded. "Sherlock would often break into Mycroft's office and drink all of his supply when he got too high, to bring himself down quickly so he didn't experience the worst of withdrawal. He did this far too often for anyone to question or even stop it. So when it happened this particular time, no one batted an eyelid.

"But then that evening, Mycroft came back to the office." She paused. Her gaze had dropped to the table, and her eyes were glazed over with nostalgia, but there was a quiet discomfort to her posture that suggested that this was not a happy memory. "He'd been shot," she said quietly. "He needed blood."

"But Sherlock had taken all of his blood supply," John murmured, thinking aloud.

"So I offered to give him mine," Anthea finished, looking back up at John.

John gulped. "How often do you… you know?"

"Not often," she assured him. "Maybe… once a month? Only if there's no other choice. I am not… his first port of call."

John sighed, placing his palm over his eyes. There was a moment's silence, which Anthea broke with a soft mutter.

"Always after Sherlock has a case."

It took a moment before John registered that she had spoken; he looked up at her sharply. "I'm sorry?" he asked.

Anthea cleared her throat, looking uncomfortable once more. "Mycroft always has to feed off me after Sherlock has finished a case. There's never any left, you see."

John looked at her in disbelief. "This happens every time?" Anthea nodded. He sighed, shoulders sagging. "How did I never notice?" he asked, more to himself than Anthea. She answered anyway.

"He has not had a case that lasted as long as the diamante case for a few years now. Vampires can last at least a week without blood, even without relying on human sustenance."

He sighed again, feeling completely stupid – something he had been slowly getting used to since he had moved in with Sherlock. He bit his lip, the image of his flatmate starving after the diamante case still fresh in his memory. What if they had another case that lasted just as long, if not longer? Would he end up killing someone? John wasn't sure he could live with that, especially as it was now within his power to prevent that from happening. He imagined Sally telling him, "I told you so" in that annoyingly smug tone of voice that she seemed to adopt with such effortless ease. He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again.

He had one last question. He felt uncomfortable about asking it, especially as Mycroft had practically answered the night before. Yet Mycroft could only give him the vampire side of the story; Anthea could give him the human side. Even so, it was such a childish question – such an infantile thing for an ex-army medic who had been shot to be asking.

Yet Anthea seemed to read his mind, and answered the question that he didn't dare ask out loud.

"It hurt the first time," she mumbled, biting her lip a little. "He was not as in control of himself as he usually is, because he was injured. He was desperate. He needed blood or he would die. It never hurt again."

John nodded absentmindedly, looking at the table rather than at Anthea. It seemed everyone wanted this to happen, and had some good arguments in favour of the arrangement. In the end it truly was John's decision, but he couldn't get the thought of the bond out of his head. He looked at Anthea. She had no idea…

He needed time to think.

~{G}~

The time that he needed to think turned out to be a month. They had two cases in that time: one that only lasted a few days, and one – more worryingly – that lasted three weeks.

It weighed heavily on John's conscience when they reached the two week mark: the length of the diamante case. Sherlock had begun to develop the same sickly pallor as before: pale, dark eyes; and it had not escaped the doctor's notice that he was moving slower than normal. There was no leaning against walls this time, but during the last cab journey of the case, John had noted that the detective was not staring out of the window as usual, but rather had his ice blue eyes fixed on the neck of the unsuspecting cabbie. At the two week mark, John had asked Sherlock if he wanted to eat, but the detective had replied that he didn't; he was fuelled by the case, by the thrill of the puzzle.

Once the case had finished, John had checked the hidden compartment in the fridge for blood bags – it was empty. He had considered offering to get Sherlock some more, when he realised that he had no idea where Sherlock got them from. So he had merely closed the door and gone to his chair – collecting his laptop on the way – to type up the blog post for the case. He had expected Sherlock to disappear for an hour or two to Mycroft's office for blood, as he usually did after a long case.

He did not expect the detective to storm triumphantly into the flat five minutes after he had settled into the chair and fall on the sofa, placing the back of his hand on his forehead. His other arm laid limp over the edge of the sofa.

John did his best to ignore him. If Sherlock wanted anything, he could get it himself – or he could ask, which the doctor felt was far less likely.

He stared at the blank screen of his blog, the curser flashing impatiently at him in the title box. He hadn't decided what to call this one yet. He glared at it for a few moments, before clicking in the entry box and beginning with the narrative. Maybe if he went over the case mentally he might remember something of significance from which to derive a moniker.

He was two paragraphs in – at an amusing part when a particularly bothersome member of the public who had got in their way while they were travelling to the crime scene had annoyed Sherlock so much that he deduced all of his problems, up to and including the fact that he was madly in love with his best friend who was due to get married to his brother that weekend, at the top of his voice in the middle of a very crowded Oxford Street – when the tapping started.

John paused in his typing, hoping that if Sherlock noticed – and there was every likelihood that he wouldn't – the detective would merely think he had halted to think of how to word his next sentence. He surreptitiously peered around the edge of his laptop at the sofa to see that the hand lying limp on the floor beside the furniture was no longer limp. The two forefingers were held together and were tapping insistently on the floor in a repeated pattern. Other than this new movement, there was no change in the detective's behaviour or pose at all.

John went back to typing, and was almost at the point at which they had arrived at the crime scene when he realised that the tapping was in Morse Code. He paused once more to interpret.

B-L-O-O-D.

H-U-N-G-R-Y.

The two words were repeated in what was no doubt a coded message to John, who chose to ignore it. That was not a method of asking that he would recognise as legitimate. He went back to typing. Half way through the description of the crime scene, the tapping stopped. When he started the next paragraph, Sherlock spoke.

"John?"

John didn't stop typing. "Yeah?"

A pause. "Have you thought about it?"

John still didn't stop typing. Sherlock had not mentioned the proposal since that morning four weeks before, and John knew full well why he was bringing it up now. "I have."

"Have you finished thinking about it?"

"No."

His typing was not disturbed for a few minutes, until-

"John?"

"What?" John asked, irritated. He saved his unfinished post and slammed the lid of his laptop down, but froze when he saw the sofa. Sherlock was still in the same position, but was now as white as a sheet and trembling. The detective took a gulp before speaking.

"Can you think about it quicker?"

The sight the detective in such a state was in almost made John comply out of sheer sympathy – almost. "This is self-inflicted, Sherlock-" he began.

"I know!" Sherlock said, his voice a little louder but not quite a shout. "Just tell me now if you're going to say 'yes'."

"I haven't decided yet-" John tried to say.

"Then GO!"

The yell rang in the air for a few moments. The silence that followed was complete, a powerful substance that demanded not to be broken. The only underlying sound was the detective's now ragged breathing as he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, clenching and unclenching his fist.

John slowly took his laptop off of his lap and placed it on the coffee table, leaning over with his hands folded and his elbows on his knees. "I'm sorry?" When Sherlock had first told him about his true nature, he had been terrified that the new development would prompt John to move out. Yet this, such a trivial issue in comparison, seemed to have caused a change in Sherlock's attitude. Was he really asking him to leave?

"Go…" Sherlock began slowly, as though he was finding it very hard to speak, "and get me some more blood bags. Please. I would do it, but I don't trust mys-" He gasped, his back arching on the sofa as his fangs elongated. He reached down from his forehead to place his hand over his mouth. He was very close to losing control.

And that, regardless of the bond, wouldn't do.

John pushed himself up from the chair and slowly walked over to the sofa. He knelt down by Sherlock's side and licked his lips nervously. It would seem that a month of going back and forth, contradicting himself and general indecision all came down to this moment.

"Yes," he sighed.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he looked at him, lowering his hand from his mouth. John flinched slightly at the sight of the fangs; he still hadn't quite got used to seeing them.

"Really?" the detective gasped.

John nodded. "On one condition," he said. Sherlock raised his eyebrow in question. "You feed on cases."

"I don't have time to get blood bags on cases," Sherlock told him matter-of-factly.

"It doesn't matter. You can… feed off of me," John still didn't quite like how that sounded, "as long as you _are_ feeding. But only on a case."

Sherlock looked up at him, as if considering this. Finally, he decided that he was far too hungry to dismiss the offer, and responded with a swift nod of his head.

"Right," John breathed. He rolled up the sleeve of his left hand – for he had decided during one of his times thinking about whether or not to accept the proposal that if he was going to say yes, then he would _not_ let Sherlock bite into his neck – and held it out over Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock didn't look at the wrist straight away, though. "Are you sure?" he asked.

John thought about the bond. He thought about what Mycroft had said. He thought about what Anthea had said. He remembered the state of the detective after the diamante case and what Donovan had warned him of when they had first met. Only one of these things could possible dissuade him from letting this happen.

"Yes," he answered. "I'm sure."

Sherlock reached up with one hand and wrapped it around the wrist offered to him, while the other curled its fingers around John's right hand. He lowered the wrist down to his mouth, and slowly sank his fangs in.

John gasped instinctively. He was surprised that it didn't hurt; it felt mildly uncomfortable, like when he had stuck a pin through the very top layer of his skin once as a child, but it wasn't painful. The two puncture points throbbed with his pulse as it pushed blood down the vampire's throat.

Yet the most interesting sensation was in his other hand. He had tried very hard not to squeeze in shock when he had first bitten, but now the fingers of that hand were tingling. It felt as though a silk ribbon was being draped over his skin, tying his and Sherlock's hands together.

_The bond_, he realised. _In some reported cases, the human has been completely unaware of it._ Anthea had been. John wasn't, but he found that he didn't care. Of all the things that had most worried him about this 'affinity', the bond was the main problem. Yet now it was actually happening, he didn't care.

John began to feel dizzy, but not uncomfortably so, so he didn't ask Sherlock to stop. He left his hand in the vampire's grip limp, and watched as a little colour returned to the detective's face.

John didn't need to use the stopping method at all. He estimated that Sherlock had taken two pints when he pulled his fangs out of his wrist. He looked better, but still hungry.

"Don't you need more?" John asked, his words slurring a little as Sherlock licked the wounds.

"That should be enough to stop me attacking anyone when I go to get some more blood bags," Sherlock explained, sitting up. He stood immediately and pushed passed to get his coat and scarf. "There are bandages in the kitchen drawer if you want to cover the marks."

"Right," John nodded, standing himself. He swayed a little on his feet but managed to right himself again. He headed for the kitchen and heard his name being called.

"John?"

"Hmm?" He turned to Sherlock. The detective was standing near the front door of the flat, fiddling with his scarf and looking slightly embarrassed.

"Thank you," he said at last.

"You're welcome," John nodded, and he left.

The doctor looked down at the marks on his wrist: two of them, red and angry. He thought about leaving them, just to gauge what people's reactions would be. Then, he decided it was too much to risk Sherlock's true nature being discovered in such a way.

He heard the front door click shut from around the corner, and went to find the bandages.

* * *

**A.N.:** So, that's it! I hope you enjoyed it. I've also written a companion fic/prequel about when Anthea became Mycroft's volens called In The Absence of Blood Bags, and I hope to post it soon.


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